All our yesterdays
by QuackPower
Summary: Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain, a damsel in distress and a hero. But it was hard for her to play a victim, and Sherlock Holmes was no hero. [Slow-burn]


**Hello there! I've had this chapter written for a while now, as well as snippets of future chapters and a general draft of a story. I'm introducing a new female character to Sherlock's universe, but I'm not following chapter after chapter of the show, because I get bored copying and pasting scripts, but of course we'll see the characters and stories we already know and add some more. Let this be an introduction. All ships and shippers are welcome, after all we all share one common afliction: we all crave more Sherlock.**

**Some extra notes:**

**English is not my first language. I check for typos and other mistakes but it still can happen.**

**Slow burn. No sudden out of character love at first sight. **

**No Mary/Gary Sues.**

**As I'm adding a character to the story some things might change from the series canon.**

**Obviously spoilers.**

**Be kind to each other.**

**Don't be a stranger.**

* * *

Silence.

It was finally that moment of the day when the traffic, the phone calls, the meetings… They all became nothing. She could forget about it all. She could almost forget about herself. Who she was and what she did. It was nice. Many days were nice, actually. She did the best she could with the hand she was handed, sometimes that implied not being a nice person. But she had no remorse. Many feared her, and many were grateful to her. At the end of the day she had no problem sleeping well. But when you have a busy agenda like hers you can't help but crave for some solitude. She was twenty seven, professionally successful and not only single but also with no prospect of companionship of any sort any time soon. And she liked it that way. The last thing she needed was to come home every night to a loving and nagging boyfriend. Once she crossed the door she didn't need cuddles, she just needed to be left alone. To enjoy her free time by herself –if she was lucky enough to get that free time for real and no situations that required her attention arose during the night-.

She took a deep breath, arms extended, spine long and nose to the mat, and pushed her hips up for downward dog. She held the position for thirty seconds and then started to sway her hips and wave her spine, giving her muscles time to warm up before going for something a little harder. She was thinking about handstands. Getting the blood to the head always helped to sleep. She contracted her core and lifted one knee to the chest and forward, not quite making the transition to pigeon but just hovering over the mat and going back to downward dog. She repeated the process with the other leg.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Deep breath in._

_Deep breath out._

Finally she could hear her own heartbeat drumming inside her ears, although she wasn't sure if it was the exertion of the yoga or the sudden awareness that someone was sneaking behind her pumping adrenaline into her bloodstream. This time instead of putting her feet back on the mat she stuck her leg up and out, where her sole found a chest.

_THUMP. POW. CRASH._

"Wow! Wow! Wow!"

When she got on her feet and turned around she found a metal and wood side table tumbled over, glass fragments and decorative spheres rolling away from the crime scene. And in the middle of it all Jim Moriarty. One hand on the floor and the other in the air, a very dramatic expression on his face.

"Yoga _and_ self-defense? I might ask for a lesson or two"-he said slowly rising up from the floor-."I could show you a couple of moves too, if you know what I mean…" -He trailed off giving her his signature once over.

"You're not my type, Jim. But I appreciate the effort."

"Oh, I know your type. Tall, dark and broody. With a great taste in coats, I must say."

"Tea?" – She offered.

"Please."

She brushed past him not acknowledging his last comment, he would get to it eventually. If she had learned something about James Moriarty over the years is that the guy is a hot mess, but everything that comes from his mouth is important. Every last bit. He likes to talk, and if you listen you'll know how he feels about things, how he feels about you and what to get him for Christmas. It is important to know where you stand with certain people. Jim Moriarty is one of them. That's why she always offered tea. Also she kinda learned to like the guy. He was an acquired taste of sorts. Yes, he was a criminal, and a part of her would never like to fraternize with people like him, but that was her cross to bear.

She set the water to boil and put two china white cups on the wooden tray in front of him as he sat by the isle. She retrieved the still dump leaves from the morning and put a bunch of them inside each cup, lightly pressing them to the bottom with the tongs. She felt his piercing eyes on her the whole time, but it didn't bother her. There was only a pair of eyes in this world that bothered her, blue and cold, hidden behind glasses, like a shark behind the thick glass of the aquarium. She hoped she never had to see them again. There used to be another pair of eyes that made things for her. Pale blue, with specks of green and gold…

"I like the new place" – Jim broke the silence as she poured the boiling water inside the cups in slow circular motions, creating a stream, willing the leaves at the bottom to swim-. "Just cozy enough to not drive you crazy."- He caressed the wooden tray as he said so-."I don't suppose you'll be staying for long."

"I like to move. I'll text you the new address."

"Don't. I like to find you."

He sipped from his cup of tea keeping his eyes fixed on her. She usually hated watching other people eat and drink, they seemed to be always in a rush, taking big gulps and making noise. But Jim made chewing look so elegant. He took his time, he let his lips linger on the rim of the cup… it was almost erotic.

"What tea is this? I love it but I always forget to ask."

"Da Hong Pao."

"Isn't that like one point two millions per kilogram?"

"It is. But you can reuse the leaves."- She said shaking the glass filter with the damp leaves she didn't use for this time, joking like it was a great deal-."Also I get it for free."

"Not for _free_, I'm sure…" – He gave her a complicit look that she returned.

No, it wasn't for free. Just a different currency. Yes, she had the money to pay for it after investing her mother's inheritance in the right places, but that wasn't what made her _her_. You see, she'd rather pay and collect in favors.

They drank in silence until they finished and she threw what was left in the cups to the bin. Yes, you can reuse the leaves, but she only did so when she served the tea from a jar, where nobody put their filthy mouth.

"That's a shame" – Jim commented.

"You want some?" – She offered.

"Nah, I want something to look forward to every time I find you. If I get my own I'll get bored. I get bored so quick…"

He was zoning out now, looking around and lowering his voice a little more with each word, talking to himself more than her.

"Jim, why are you here?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, yes…" –He refocused his attention on her, leaning over the isle and whispering as if he was sharing a secret with her- "I'm extending an invitation. I think it's time he sits at the grown-ups table."

She knew who he meant: tall, dark and broody aka Sherlock Holmes.

She couldn't say she was surprised. It was a matter of time. First it was Jeff Hopes, the murder cabbie from _A Study in Pink_. Then the whole mess with Van Coon and the Black Lotus Tong from _The Blind Banker_ –which by the way, the smuggling operation? Moriarty's plan, yes. But the antiques? Those were provided by her. Now you know why a kilogram of the most expensive tea arrives at her door charge free every month-. Not only had Sherlock stepped onto Moriarty's toes twice, but his partner's blog was starting to get too many visits to just fly by. Jim's interest was picked, as expected. She wouldn't even try to talk Moriarty out of it. It would only make him suspicious of her. He already was. This wasn't just a social visit. He wasn't being polite, much less asking for permission. He was here to measure her reaction and give a warning.

"I can't say I didn't expect it, Jim. Consulting criminal v Consulting detective. It was meant to be."

"Right?!" –He screamed excitedly and a lil'bit too loudly. She would have gotten startled by his outburst if she wasn't already accustomed to them. - "I knew you would understand."-His demeanor changed completely again. He rested his chin on one hand and with the other he took hers over the isle, caressing her, almost shy and feminine. - "You always get me."

She found herself returning his touch. Maybe she needed a cuddle after all. Maybe she should make an appointment with the closest shrink. Because as weird as Jim could get, he didn't give her the creeps. Because she knew worse. She knew creepier. She knew slimy hands and wet inappropriate kisses. Conscious enough to feel the fear and utter disgust, but too far off to fight him off.

"Just don't get in the way, ok? Don't spoil it. I want it to be a surprise."

And there was the warning.

"We've already talked about this, Jim." – She brushed him off.

"I know, I just want to make sure this isn't a conflict of interest for you."

He didn't give a fuck about her feelings regarding the matter as long as they didn't get in his way, that much she knew, she wasn't stupid enough to think James Moriarty was her friend.

"It's not." –She insisted keeping a straight face.

"Good. Good." – He seemed happy with her response. –"Well, it's been nice, as always. Thanks for the tea. Ciao, Charlie."

With one last lingering look he left through the glass doors of the back porch leaving a sour flavor in the back of her mouth. Nobody called her that since she left the country ten years ago. She immediately went to her bedroom, forgetting about the mess in the living area. She sat on the bed and her fingers graced over the boring sample of books resting on her nightstand: The Oxford Dictionary, The Japanese Tea Ceremony, Drug Addiction and it's Treatment, and finally A-Z Encyclopedia of Garden Plants. She pulled the last one onto her lap. A thick leather bound tome, barely touched. She never finished it. There was no point in it. By the time she made it to _Rhododendron_ she had all the answers she needed.

She let the book open naturally over her legs and her eyes skimmed over the same words they had read a thousand times before. Mad honey, grayatoxin, vomiting, confusion, cardiac arrest, coma… Years ago she was confused when Sherlock Holmes had presented her with such an odd birthday gift, but he was an odd guy, so she accepted it graciously. Back then she trusted him, they had started on the wrong foot, but in time she ended up trusting him more than she had ever trusted anyone. And so she had trusted him with horrible thoughts that had plagued her mind since she was a child, about her father having something to do with her mother's death. He had listened as he always did, but he never commented anything. She liked it that way. He probably thought she was crazy and making things up. But when she turned the page three quarters into the book she recognized the flower in the picture as well as the symptoms. She remembered her father, preparing a honey-like substance that she wasn't allowed to touch out of the lilac version of those same flowers that filled the east side of their property in Sussex. The book wasn't a random gift from an uncaring acquaintance. She always thought something was wrong with her to think such terrible things about her own father. Maybe it was just her imagination as a kid, a distant nightmare, a snowball that became bigger and bigger inside her mind because of her _medication_. Her medication… By the time she was old enough to realize the control her father exerted over her throughout _her medication_ it was too late. She was an addict already, and he wasn't over shaming her or threatening her with his little comments and calming voice. She was a virtual prisoner. Under his thumb. Too afraid to do anything about it, and yet too rebel to just play whatever role he had designed for her and reclaim some sort of freedom. She used to feel so guilty, so unbecoming, and so alone all the time… But she wasn't crazy for thinking her father was capable of murdering his own wife. Sherlock thought so too, and he was always right. This was his way of telling her. That she wasn't alone. He solved the case.

The next day she hugged him and said thank you. He didn't ask why. They didn't talk. Sometimes they didn't need to. The silence between them was nice. Of course they never went to the police with this information. Her mother died many years ago, and her father was too powerful already. He would probably have her locked up in a mental institution overseas if she ever tried to come out with the truth. He got to murder his wife and play the victim. It was perfect. But that was her father, meticulous to a psychopathic extreme.

She took the picture that she kept inside that book, in that particular page. It was the two of them, in outmoded outfits. He was wearing a green handkerchief to match the color of her dress, and she was wearing the flowery bracelet he had gotten for her. She didn't even want to go to that party, but Seb Wilkes had been hassling Sherlock in campus so when he asked her to go with him she told him she was going with Sherlock just to spite him. Turns out Sherlock likes to dance. Or at least he used to. It'd been a long time since the last time he crossed her mind. It'd been a long time since the last time she reached for that picture. But since Moriarty found hers in the detective's apartment Jim was fond of teasing her mercilessly about it. In his bedroom, above the dresser, framed but tipped over. Close but hidden, like she kept the one she was holding now. The thought did things to her stomach. She put the picture and the book back in their place, willing the feelings away. She might be fooling Jim, but she couldn't fool herself. Sherlock Holmes had provided her with the closure and strength she needed to take ownership of her own life, and for that, no matter how many years passed, Sherlock Holmes would always be a conflict of interest. She owed him. Now the question was: could she afford that big of a debt?


End file.
